Twice as Bright
by Karaii
Summary: Cole-the-Beast is tired of death. Having newly gained the power Kessler once boasted of, he decides to go back in time and stop the creation of the Ray Sphere. Kessler, however, isn't about to let him do that. And the young MacGrath? He's just lost.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **This story presents our protagonist Cole **following the non-canon Evil Ending of Infamous 2**, in which he kills Nix and Zeke and becomes the Beast. Here, realizing the futility of his present actions and wrought with grief-hallucinations, Cole-the-Beast comes to a decision that will change everything.** Using his newest power, he decides to go back in time, and stop Cole MacGrath from ever gaining possession of his powers.**

This is my first Infamous story, so there might be some mistakes. Feel free to drop a message if you enjoyed reading!

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><p><strong>Chapter 1.<strong>

Zeke isn't the only one that haunts your dreams, but he's certainly of the few that linger on when you're awake.

_What've you turned into, man?_ he'd murmured angrily those first few months after his death, but these days he just stares at you, quiet and mournful. Accusing. He slouches in the corner of the room, there; sits some space beside you when you dangle your legs over a ruined building; does the whole lonesome gunman stare whenever you destroy another city. The silence is worse because it's ever-present: this is the gap that you created, with your own hands—the death you brought to him, to the many more after. Millions, after. How many people have been laid to rest with these hands?

"Cole," Kuo speaks softly, making herself known. As if you hadn't already sensed her presence the ten minutes she's been standing there, watching you watch the distant horizon, awash with the red of the sunset and your own black-red radiation.

"That's not my name anymore," you tell her without glancing her way, voice like gravel. Zeke barks out a chortle some distance from you, mocking, but of course Kuo cannot hear or see him. Zeke is dead.

"Beast," she corrects herself, frowning through the shape mouth makes. "The humans have ordered an airstrike against us—they're bound to be here in a few minutes. There are a lot of them, this time. I think they might be hiding something. Something big."

The humans, she calls them now. Dear, selfish Kuo…so quickly she adapts to new environments, you think. So quickly she's forgotten she was once human. _No quicker than you, man_.

"I know," you tell her, calmly. Casual and unworried-like, you begin to play with a bolt of lightning between your hands, the hue as red as the air about you. "They will be here in ten minutes. The air strike is a distraction for the real prize: they're going to drop a nuke on our home base. They plan to wipe out as many conduits as they can."

"_What_!" Kuo sputters, and you feel the breeze drop a few degrees in chill. "You know this, and you're not doing anything? They'll kill us all if we don't stop it!"

"Not all of us," you roll your shoulders in a shrug. Zeke is unreadable some feet beside you, standing now, his sunglasses concealing once-fond eyes. His grubby hands are in his pockets, and some part of you registers the stale sent of pizza and decay. But you know well it's all in your head.

"Cole!" Kuo cries—you sense the hand coming and let it grasp your shoulder, cold as death and twice as deadly. You're swerved at such an angle that your eyes are now leveled with her angry face. "You plan on doing nothing? That nuke will destroy all the conduits you've saved!"

So what? Many of the conduits you've saved along the way have fallen against the dying humans. For every ten you save (and wipe hundreds upon thousands of people to awaken them), five die in the war as you travel the length of the world. These days you understand why John pleaded an end to the madness on that red day in New Marais. Why he gave up, not a tenth of the journey in.

It is hard. And God, it is tiring. Despite being the most powerful conduit alive, with more power than you or Kessler or anyone had ever dreamed of developing, you are bone weary and constantly feel dry, sucked of life and of energy. Like the lethargic feel of a world without electricity, this mental or physical oppression clogs your breath and muffles your mind, leaving it vulnerable to Zeke and Nix and all those you have ended in this futile, fetid race. Only Trish has never shown herself. Even in death, you disgust her.

You are so very tired.

"Cole!" Kuo is shaking you now, a hitch in her voice. "_Please_. We'll all die!" Is she crying? The salty tears crystallize into ice seconds after being shed, cracking and breaking off in little shards. The fear of death compels her, drives her to madness: to this very extent of madness. Undoubtedly, she would sacrifice the world if it meant that she would live.

"John was right, you know." You roughly push Kuo off, causing her to trip and fall backwards. Her breath catches at the shock of your motion, and she stares at you on the ground, uncomprehending. "This burden is something only I could see through properly."

"…Cole?" Kuo whispers. Is there some form of understanding dawning in her eyes? Or just the pain of shedding tears her body no longer knows how to handle?

"I told you, that's not my name anymore," you smile, the scar down your face twisting into duplicate, lopsided smirks. Your pale, drawn-out skin is almost translucent in the red haze that begins to encircle you, calling the Beast's powers and yours, now.

"What are you—?"

"Kessler developed a power, in his despair and emotional maturation; a power that trumped all the others he'd come to possess. One he decided would be the answer to all his present problems—"

"Cole, don't tell me—" Kuo sputtered, immediately leaping to her feet. "You can't! After all you've done, you—"

"He molded me to be ruthless," you murmur, your voice metastasized into a growl so deep it shakes the very foundations of the building you stand on. "But he failed to account for the long-term consequences of such a transformation. I cannot let that happen to Cole. You see, Cole must never awaken."

"You're running away!" Kuo screamed, her fear of death, of being erased, forgotten, of being overwritten evident in the force and quake of her every breath. "You have to fix what you've broken here, in the present! You can't just—"

"I am the Beast," your voice is no longer recognizable. "And there can only be one."

"_Cole_!" Kuo's scream is drowned in the cacophonous shriek of both metal and human minds alike as you suck in the life force of everyone within a hundred meters of your position, powering up for the single greatest burst of energy you have ever and will ever expel—

There is a moment, a second really, in which time seems to stop, and you glance over to where Zeke had been standing, wanting, dreading, anticipating his expression—but Zeke is not there. Zeke has been dead for a long time.

And then you feel nothing more than pain, pain, _PAIN_—

John had apologized for attacking you in Empire City, so many years before. He'd also admitted that reconstructing himself atom by atom had been by far the most painful and maddening experience of his short life.

You understand now, what he meant by that. But, honestly? This feels even worse.

Time is a fickle thing—Kessler had never explained how exactly he'd managed to time travel, how he'd managed to land in the desired time frame and not, say, a hundred years off the mark. And, as your untangled mind attempts to piece itself back together as you literally FEEL the time stream racing by you, backwards, you wonder if maybe he really didn't know when he'd end up, and that's why it took him back so many years off Cole's awakening—and, vaguely, you wonder when you'll wake up yourself, when this pain will end—

If you had functioning ears and a present body, you would've heard an ear-splitting crackle of abrupt black lightning tear the sky, racing down from the heavens, exploding a crater on the ground—ONE, TWO, THREE strikes in quick succession, before just as abruptly disappearing, leaving only the smell of sulfur. The time stream has spat you out—what's left of you, anyway.

The powers of the Beast aid you. John was good at putting himself back together: it stands to reason that you'd be good at it, too. Atom by atom, molecule by molecule, slowly, slowly…you come to a grinding, agonizing halt. Somehow, you are still alive. You're blind and deaf and cannot feel anything under your fingertips, but now you have all the time you need to piece it all together, to fix everything, spark some electricity through you deadened limbs… but for now, you want to sleep.

x-x-x

When you wake up, the sky is so bright a blue it's painful: so used to seeing grey and black and red, you only just realize how much you missed this untainted view.

Everything hurts. Tentatively, you flex your fingers—thankfully, they are all there. You wiggle toes—yes, all there. Seems like John's experience was good practice for getting everything right the first time. You can feel a smile creeping up your face, and it brings painful tears to your eyes as a result of stretching the tender new skin you've drawn together. Gradually, external awareness comes to you in the form of a woman shrieking something about a naked man. Naked man?

Oh, you realize, painfully drawing yourself up to a slouching sitting position and (gratefully) noticing all your other bits are still there. That seems to mean you.

"Lady," you try to ask her, but all that comes out is a wretched croak of a sound, nothing like a human language. You cough, barely able to breath, only realizing now that you hadn't been breathing: your lungs have only just been regenerated. Coughing and hacking and drawing in huge breaths, you try and recover enough to ask an important question.

A couple of curious bystanders have stopped to look at you now. A pained glance at your surroundings reveal you've regenerated yourself in a non-descript alley, dusty and stinking of trash, same as most alleys in most cities. What time is it? What year is it?

It's clearly before the arrival of the Beast in this timeline, given the undestroyed state of this place. There weren't many cities left, in your time. You'd leveled most of them to ground zero.

Another shaking, soul-wracking cough escapes you, as if your newly reconstructed lungs are those of an old man's. Tired is something that just barely covers what you feel. But the air around you is humming with the blessed presence of electricity, and that helps control your breathing into some semblance of normality. In your time, there hadn't been much electricity left. But here, there's enough around that you can just about taste it, deliciously acidic and achingly familiar.

The people around are chattering incessantly, tearing you from this soothing revelation. Your hands unconsciously curl into fists. It's tempting to blast these annoying citizens with electricity, like you used to do, before you started simply blink them out of existence with the powers of the Beast. If you had power enough, you would've killed them all by now for being so fucking noisy and unhelpful.

"Excuse me!" a terrifyingly familiar voice snaps your attention to the crowd—a girl trying to squeeze her way through, pushing angrily until she's bullied her way through, voice stern and commanding. "I'm a med student, I can help this man! Make way!"

"Trish?" You try to say, but again, all that comes out is a dry, rasping croak—she's—she's—

Trish—a younger Trish, but her beautiful face is so familiar, so _heartbreakingly_ familiar—she's got a hand on your shoulder, now, authoritatively, telling you something—

Trish is alive. You lose consciousness then, in her arms. There's a slack smile on your face, and the darkness is blessedly sparse of nightmares.

x-x-x

Elsewhere, beyond your scope of consciousness, a hooded man twitches reflexively at the feel of a huge power surge in the distance. At his chest, blue spheres glow a tinge brighter in response to his surprise.

"Kessler?" a dark-skinned and gray-haired man asks, noticing the subtle change. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," the man rasps, voice like gravel. He pauses for another moment, before turning to his companion, hands clasped behind his back in an authoritative position. "How goes our newest test subject, Wolfe?"

"Dead, like the last five." The well-dressed scientist sighs. "Getting the gore out from the door hinges was particularly unpleasant."

"Work on that, then," Kessler growls. "I must go out. I felt a new conduit not far from here."

Wolfe raises his brows. "Why not send someone?"

"This one is strong," Kessler mutters, already on his way out. "This one I will attend personally."

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><p>Thanks for reading! Drop a review if you like, I'm always happy to hear feedback.<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Using his newest power, Cole-the-Beast went back in time, crash-landing scarred and disoriented into a past where Trish is still in med-school and Kessler has yet to make his move. **In the hospital, the Beast is visited by familiar faces, begins a stand-off with the him-from-the-future that made him who he is, and comes to a decision.**

Thank you all for your wonderful reviews and support! I'm sorry if the second-person is a bit jarring, I grew up writing in that perspective so it's hard for me to switch. I hope it's not so uncomfortable that it makes the story impossible to follow!

As always, reviews are appreciated if you want to jot one down.

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><p><strong>Chapter 2.<strong>

You wake up to the smell of antiseptic and the taste of gauze. Bemused, you sit up and touch your face. There's a bandage covering the side of it, and in brief amusement you wonder if it's because your old scar scared the frail nurses before you tear it off and make to stand up. You've been outfitted with hospital scrubs—kind of them, given that otherwise you would be naked—but you plan on changing this as soon as you get out of here.

A glance at your surroundings registers the regular emergency room apparel: a flimsy blue bed, an emergency kit on the headboard, some machines currently unused to your right and left, and a cheap blue curtain concealing you from your unfortunate neighbors. So this is the infamous Empire City Hospital, the one where Trish worked at. Works at.

Damn it, _will_ work at.

She's a med student right now, huh? You muse on that for a minute or two, reveling in private joy upon having seen her face. Her beautiful face, not slack with disappointment or death or decay: awake, aware, and impossibly alive.

Even now, as ruthless are you've become, Trish was the only one you could have never killed, would have stopped the madness of killing for, if only she'd asked. Thrice-damned Kessler had eliminated that possibility, you remember with a haze of red. Clever, clever Kessler. The bastard had signed his death warrant the moment such an idea had crossed his broken, feeble mind.

Oh, Kessler was going to go. You can feel him swimming around in the edge of your consciousness—the one that can detect conduits on a thought, now—slimy, slippery Kessler, still alive, still breathing, and bound to die a painful, agonizing death. This, you will enjoy.

The nurse's gasp does not startle you, but your fury doubles. So mired were you in your thoughts that you'd utterly failed to realize she was there. The reason for her surprise is obvious: red lightning had been dancing about the machines around you, small but unmistakable. Immediately, you reign in your anger, figuring it's best to keep a low profile while you're here. No need for any more unnecessary deaths, you tell yourself calmly. No need for any more unnecessary chaos.

At least, not while you still intend to fix everything.

"Yes?" You direct this to the nurse, voice scratchy and dangerous.

You can tell the nurse is trembling in her shoes, but her voice is steady when she tells you that you have to fill this chart, please, and buzz for assistance if you need it. Then, with a quick shuffle, she's gone; the noise of the curtain falling back into place is the only thing that notes any semblance of farewell.

The chart is pretty straightforward. Name, insurance ID, cause of accident and reason for hospitalization—blah, blah. Humans and their obsession with paperwork. You hold back the urge to fry the paper to a crisp with the fire, and instead send out a casual electromagnetic pulse to get a cursory glance at how many people are within a hundred-meter radius, a move undetected by anyone but perhaps some stray machinery.

There are two other patients in the emergency ward, to your left—one of them has a large tumor growing in their colon, while the other one has nothing noticeable by x-ray but contains the conduit gene—beyond that there are five nurses on staff, one of which has a broken toe, and another with a curious metal device situated above the stomach, for eating, perhaps. Twenty people outside the emergency ward are picked up by your pulse, all with their own structural quirks and internal imperfections or diseases or fractures—of these, only two in total are potential conduits. They will be weak ones—your experience with converting conduits has led you to have a kind of affinity for predicting what powers they'll possess: the one to your left will develop some air-related power, while the one beyond the ward will come to wield the painfully familiar power of oil.

None of these are Trish, and none of them pose any possible threat to you. You relax onto the bed, finally giving yourself the time to bask in the current calm, undisturbed by nuclear bombs or dying conduits or dead friends. You've successfully traveled back in time, you smile to yourself. Congratulations.

Now fix what you've come to fix.

You review your plan, the one that you'd been forming for the past few weeks, hidden away from Kuo and your numerous followers. The very reason the Beast had come into being was because of the powers of the Ray Sphere. So, naturally, the Ray Sphere has to go. But additionally, the acceleration of the Ray Sphere's creation had been because of Kessler. So Kessler has to go. And, finally, to prevent Cole from becoming ruthless and crazy and too powerful, you have to make sure either Cole never awakens his powers, or eliminate him completely.

No Ray Sphere, no Beast. No Kessler. No Cole-the-Electric-Man. Done. Trish lives, the world lives—everyone lives, even the potential conduits. Sounds perfect.

Oh, it is inelegant, yes, but Cole-the-Beast has never been elegant. Kessler's own plan of "making Cole ruthless by killing Trish" had been inelegant, and fucking retarded. You laugh. It seems no matter what any of you try to do differently, Cole will always grow up to be stupid, and stupidly too powerful.

You register a powerful conduit approaching faster than you register the conduit's identity, but the acrid feel makes it clear who it is almost immediately after:

_Kessler_.

Damn it! You should have taken into account that Kessler possesses almost the same powers that you do, those of which include being able to sense powerful conduits. The powers of the Beast within you only accentuate the expression of your own powerful conduit gene, which must make you seem like lighthouse in a sea of fireflies.

Instinctively, you almost reach within to summon John's powers—in defense, you think—but just as quickly you quell it down. Kessler could have blown up this hospital if he believed you a great enough threat. The bastard is most certainly capable of it. You know, because you're capable of it, too, and have proven it over and over again. See, Kessler _is_ you. Only he is jaded not by his own powers of destruction, but by his inability to prevent destruction.

So you calm yourself, control yourself, and sit up against the headboard of your bed, looking for all the world as if you're a regular Joe weaning off a bad hangover in the Emergency Room: somewhat pained, somewhat shame-faced, but mostly kind of pissed someone's stormed into your closed-off space of shame and recovery.

The conduit you sense as Kessler is making quick work of the nurses outside—not charming them, you think jadedly. Probably making a show of his connections to intimidate them, as if his crazy outfit wasn't enough. Another electromagnetic pulse confirms that he's on his way here, his powerful stride eating up distance like it's nothing.

The curtain is pulled back. Identical blue eyes meet.

"Hey," you raise your brows mockingly. "This room's taken."

"Drop your pretense," Kessler's voice is like rocks grating up a throat. "Your powers—you have the power of the Beast, which has not yet awoken here. Which means you are not from this time line."

Huh. That was fast. You grin, and you know from Kessler's face of mild surprise that there's probably red about your head, the red of John's powers to yours. "Wow, you are clever, aren't you Kessler? But, are you as clever as I am?"

"What are you doing here," Kessler's voice is an absolute monotone. His face closes as he closes the curtain behind him: to conceal this scene from others? Or for something more nefarious? Bring it on, old man, you think savagely.

"Same question I can ask you, you slimy motherfucker," your grin stretches wide, and it is then something clicks in Kessler's head, you can almost hear it.

"…Cole?" he speaks slowly, perhaps recognizing your face; more likely, he's recognized the attitude.

"Cole?" You repeat back at him, mockingly. You cross your arms, smirking, bitter: yes, jaded. "That's not your name or mine, anymore."

Kessler is—for once—shocked into silence. And then his eyes narrow. "You possess the powers of the Beast," he repeats.

"Oh, you're good." You wave your hand around, a trail of red following it closely. As if it wasn't obvious. You can't conceal John's power from a conduit-sensor any more than you can conceal your own inborn powers. "Any other clever observations you want to put out there, Kessler?"

"Why are you here," Kessler's tone has dropped several pitches, to a low, rumbling threat. Like you, he shows off bits and pieces of his power—yellow lightning dances about the tight fists at his side, his eyes glowing an impossible blue. You're both puffed up peacocks and it makes you laugh. You are both ridiculous.

"You made me ruthless so I could face the Beast," you echo the words you told Kuo before you killed her, slouched and ruthless-looking on the bed, casual-like but with a vein of _danger_ so loud it's possible even non-conduits can feel it, and feel the hairs on their arms raise. "But, problem is, Kessler, I became so ruthless that I became the Beast itself."

Kessler shows some teeth then, his old gaunt and wasted face menacing and dark and quite ruthless itself. "So then you failed. The fault here is not mine, but yours, _Beast_. Your hate is unwarranted, and misdirected."

And that strikes you cold, because it's true—you were the one who went to John willingly, who held up a hand to slowly, torturously, devastatingly end Zeke's life (_your best friend, your only friend_), and Nix when she fought for hers, and all those humans and even Kuo, too—no one held your hand through that. No one forced you to do that, except you yourself. Kessler was dead, by then. Cole had died, then. Only the Beast remained.

And still remains.

"The fault is ours, Kessler," you say lowly, drawing up into a hunch, looking more like a cornered animal than you'd care to admit. "And I will not allow that to happen again. I will not allow the Ray Sphere to be completed. I will not allow you to live, and endanger us all. I will not let Cole turn into you, or me, for that matter. And, above all, I will _not_ allow Trish to die. I will never allow that."

Kessler is silent, staring, judging perhaps, and you stupidly flashback to Zeke and you watching that stupid western flick you both loved, so many years ago, and you feel like you and Kessler are cowboys, standing off, facing off—but who is the villain in this picture?

_Aren't they both villains_? Zeke had asked with a chortle.

_I guess it depends on who you ask_, you'd laughed.

You're not laughing now.

The standoff is broken when the curtain is drawn back, to which Kessler turns around sharply—he'd been surprised by the intrusion and so had you, both of you so busy sizing each other up—and now, both of you are speechless, because the one who walks in is fate herself, the turning point and determining factor in both your lives, in Cole's life: Trish Dailey, looking as furious as a harpy.

"Who are you and what are you doing in my patient's room!" She snaps at Kessler, who blinks, taken aback. "No one has signed in at the desk as a visitor for this young man." She must have noticed the tension in the room and decided Kessler was unwelcome. Ah, Trish, ever your saving grace.

"He's a relation of mine," you step in, smiling what is hopefully a pleasant smile in Trish's direction.

"…quite removed," Kessler mutters.

"You're my doctor?" You continue, ignoring Kessler. Bastard should be grateful you didn't tell Trish to kick him out.

"I'm your attending nurse, now," Trish says matter-of-factly, nodding smartly. "I'm sorry I'm late, I got texted by the stand-in nurse a few minutes ago. You'll have to excuse her: it's her first week in training. First, let's check your vitals. And you," she nods to Kessler, "you can sit in the chair, there, so you don't get in the way." Kessler, wordless, complies, blue eyes slightly aglow with a nameless emotion. You would've mocked him, but you too are too busy staring at Trish, something stupid-sounding like butterflies making disarray of your insides.

She walks over to you, hooking you up the machines with expert fingers, grabbing your wrist professionally. Without meaning to, you give her an unintentional shock of small red sparks when she touches you, and she jerks back, startled.

"Wow! Lots of static built up in you, huh?" she laughs, somewhat embarrassed by her reaction, and once again holds your wrist to get your pulse on the machine.

She's unaware of it, but you and Kessler are captivated by that laugh, silenced into mutual peace just by her presence; she fusses about your form, berating you for taking off your bandages, but complimenting your fast healing rate, remarking that your burn had looked more severe at the scene of the accident than it is now—

Burn? Oh, you realize, touching your face in curiosity. It seems you didn't come out as whole as you thought you had from the time stream—you have an ugly-feeling keloidal scar about the side of your face, complimenting the already-existing scar that runs down your face, like a melodramatic tear paved by magma. It's somewhat tender, but, like Trish said, it seems to be healing quite well. John's powers, no doubt. It'll probably fade away, if you will it.

No wonder Kessler had failed to recognize you at first. The burn scar hasn't quite disfigured you, but it's made your resemblance to Cole MacGrath minimal enough that even Trish hasn't recognized the familiarity. You're grateful for that, if not a bit put out, in some corner of your heart. You're not sure if you want to keep it after you leave the hospital, as a reminder; you're not vain, but any less attention you bring to yourself is best. Perhaps you'll just heal it until it's minimal scarring, rather than the ugly texture it is now.

"Your vitals are fine," Trish says, perhaps somewhat surprised by your rapid recovery. "If I may ask, do you remember your accident? You had no ID on you, and no one was around to identify you." She looks over to Kessler, expectantly. "Could you identify yourself, as well?"

"Kessler," Kessler says, somewhat reluctantly. He does not provide a last name.

"My name is John," you say, mentally fumbling for a name and blurting out the first that comes out. It would've been awkward to identify yourself as Cole MacGrath; it doesn't feel right now, anyway. "John White."

Trish nods, jotting that down into the chart you'd so callously ignored. "All right, John. Do you remember the circumstances leading to your accident?"

"…I'm afraid not, Trish," you say, crossing your arms defensively. This might be getting out of control, you realize. You can't get closer to her: she's not stupid, and while your voice may have lowered and your face become slightly deformed, you are still identical to an older-looking Cole MacGrath, and you can't allow yourself to meddle in her life any more than is necessary. You only want to protect her from the very man in this room, who plans to kill her—something you will not allow. Not again.

Not _ever_.

"I'm not wearing my identification," Trish says, touching the side of her clothes, where her identification usually rests. "How do you…?"

There you go, already slipping up. You snarl at yourself mentally. You're perfectly capable of causing worldwide genocide, but you flounder like a schoolboy in the presence of a single woman.

(_Perhaps Kessler_, a small voice whispers, _seeing this inadequacy, he had_—

_NO_!_—_you will NOT go there, never, EVER—)

"The nurse," you say, quickly. "The one who came in to check me first. She told me. Trish Dailey, right?"

"Right…" Trish says, still somewhat startled, but she's quick to resume to her professional persona. "Well, your vitals are fine. The gap in your memory from the accident is likely a concussion, though there are no internal injuries. I'm sure it'll come back to you in a few hours."

She's shaping up to be a brilliant medic, you know, even now when she is young—she looks like she did at twenty-two, instead of the twenty-six she had been when she'd died—and _NO_, stop, you won't go there, you won't let it—

"Is he good to go?" Kessler interrupts; his arms are folded and his back is straight, the very image of a stern and knowledgeable professor. He's a scientist, you know, but it's hard to picture yourself (or even Cole, before) ever becoming a scientist. Funny, thinking on it, how easily paths diverge. How easily things go wrong.

It's not funny at all.

"I'd prefer it if he stays a few more hours, just to monitor him," Trish is talking to Kessler, and you observe the minute flexes of her facial muscles in profile view, in love with her still, always. "But I can't make him stay if he doesn't want to. Medically, he is perfectly fine."

"Then we will go. Won't we, _John_?" Kessler's intense blue eyes lock onto yours, and it's that standoff again, and you can swear you hear an echo of Zeke's laugh, laughing at you both. Laughter petering off into the void.

"Yeah," you hear yourself saying, and it's only by sheer force of will that the red of fire and lightning stay within and don't manifest around you. "Yeah, I'll be going, then."

"Well," Trish frowns. "I can't stop you. But if you feel any dizziness or nausea, anything at all, call me, all right?" She distracts you from your staring contest by handing over a simple, elegant card detailing her name (Trish Dailey), her number (555-0127), and other contact information. "Take care of yourself, John."

"You too," you tell her, and for a moment, you want to grasp her tight, hug her as hard as you can—but you smile instead, slide off the bed, and you and Kessler leave the small emergency ward without either of you looking back. Kessler pauses at the cashier, makes a quick phone call—he's paying for your emergency-room expenses, it seems—and then, when both of you reached the outside of the hospital, he turns to you, eyes hard and cold and the same shade as ice.

"We are not enemies yet, Beast," he says, a warning note in his throat. "If we both want the same thing: that our futures do not come to pass."

"We most certainly do not want the same thing," you snarl, static crawling up your arm. You're both of the same height, similar deformities twisting you from your common ancestor, but the glow of your lightning shines different, marking you separate, irreconcilable. "If you intend on killing Trish, then no, you sick fuck, we will never want the same thing."

"Killing her…" He glares to one side, and for all his years, the old man looks young and broken. "That would have been a last resort. I—"

"Well, you killed her, and look how you made me. Good job on that," you laugh, and if you could cry, you're sure it would come out the red of the corruption that consumes you now. "Good fucking job."

"Perhaps that was a mistake," Kessler says, coldly. "Perhaps not. What became of you after was of your own doing, beyond my scope of meddling."

"If you touch her, Kessler," you smile, wide and with too much teeth, expelling all the menace John gave you and all the menace you came to on your own, without Kessler's meddling. "I will do more than just kill you. I am quite capable of it."

"You are the Beast," Kessler says with equal or more hate, there, and some part of you knows that it was these powers of yours that killed Trish in his time, that killed his two baby girls, that destroyed everything Kessler had ever held dear, and that is something that was beyond the scope of your meddling but brands you responsible nonetheless, in his eyes. You have both been each other's murderers. "And if you interfere with my plan, I will do more than kill you, myself. And you well know how far I am capable of going, aren't you?"

If he were less elegant, he would have spat on you. Unluckily for him, you are not so elegant, and Nix taught you much. You spit in his direction, and grin savagely. Kessler's face contorts similarly as he wipes the spit off his cheek. This standoff will come to an end, you think. Soon. Sooner than you thought.

You can still hear Zeke laughing, all the way into the void, the tune of a western following him into the grave. _I love that part_.

Kessler turns around, and disappears with a zap of lightning. Your face quirks unpleasantly. This won't end well. With a flash of red, you disappear, too.

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><p>Thanks for reading! Jot down a review if you like, all are read and appreciated!<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Thanks again for the reviews! You guys are golden.

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><p><strong>Chapter 3.<strong>

The humid air about you induces sparks from your exposed skin, crawling warnings of red static up your arms. It's going to rain.

You make quick work of the rooftops, grinding down cables and hovering expertly to the next source of electricity, seeking suitable shelter. You missed this—the thrill of the speed, the taste of electricity. In your time, after you'd blazed and wrecked havoc to the human world, you'd realized too late that you had systematically and effectively eliminated the fueling source of your own powers. The electricity produced in the very cities you were destroying was dwindling, dwindling, till it was gone.

The world had felt dry, sucked of life and static. The only time you had really felt alive was during thunderstorms devoid of rain—those of which were quite rare, especially after so much nuclear war. John's powers were enough to keep your own going strong despite all this, but it had been hard, trying, and ultimately exhausting.

If you were to do everything again, you would render the cities bare of rebels but leave the electricity running—keep them hostage, perhaps, scared witless and scared pliant to your will…

_NO_, you think as the first drops of rain begin to haphazardly sizzle off your skin; no, if you were to do everything again, you'd do it as you are doing it now—do it _right_, and with the least amount of fucking up as possible. You'd had your fun, your time of slaughter. Now, you have to focus on destroying the Ray Sphere, on killing Kessler and keeping Trish happy. Most importantly, keeping Trish _alive_.

She'd died with hate in her breath, accusations in her eyes, and looking back it had been that, above all else, that had been your breaking point to madness. And it had been no one's fault but your own that she'd branded you a monster, in the end.

_Over here,_ Zeke's voice makes you turn mid-glide, and there he is, waving casual-like over to a well-covered awning on the second floor veranda of an apartment building, fitted with cushioned chairs and other commodities. A perfect place to ride out the rain unharmed, as long as the owners of the place remained unaware.

You call forth a tether of sticky lightning to hook you over, breaking the connection seconds before crashing down to avoid making a ruckus of the furniture upon landing; instead, you hover down gracefully, dusting off stray drops of water as you look for a place to sit.

"Thanks," you mutter to the shade as you relax on a veranda chair, protected from the rain by a sturdy umbrella. You'll stay here until the rain abates.

Zeke does not reply, having again resumed his stance of silence. It's off-putting, that, more than the fact that Zeke is a hallucination. While living, Zeke had never been quiet. Your memories of him are filled with the scent of grease and the sound of laughter, a cocky smile and classy shades…given that this is _your_ hallucination, the fact that you've rendered Zeke a solemn ghost with nary a smile seems like a thousand times more severe a disservice to him than your betrayal all those years ago.

It leaves a taste of ashes in your mouth, like the bitter residue of a burnt corpse in the air. Zeke is probably still staring at you as you close your eyes to sleep away the rain, standing over you like a vigilante but probably lingering solely to cause you mental discomfort. Fat bastard.

You refuse to acknowledge the wetness behind your eyelids, deciding it's probably just some raindrops you missed.

x-x-x

"I'm home!" Trish calls out, closing the door loudly. She's probably tired from the long hours at work and the raging downpour she's just run through. "Cole, are you home?"

I smile. "Right here, babe!"

Trish walks into the small living room space after she's taken off her wet coat, frowning at the sight of me on the couch surrounded by about a dozen cans of beer. Not all of them are open yet, geez!

"Watching that stupid movie all day again?"

Her voice has always made me happy, even when she sounds so grumpy.

"Naw, just me and Zeke celebrating a promotion!" I grin, coming up to her and picking her up as if she weighs nothing, twirling her around—an action that causes her to laugh breathlessly, and I love her.

"Ooh, a promotion?" She coos, her eyes smiling as she comes in close, and our noses touch. Someday I will get enough money to marry this woman, I think, and if I didn't have a reputation to keep up, I'd feel like crying a little from happiness. My life is perfect.

"And a pay raise," I croon back, beaming. She runs a hand through my hair—what's left of it, anyway. I recently had it shaved off, since my fringe had been getting in the way of my parkour. It's still a foreign feel for her, but given how often she does it, it must be to her liking.

"Aw, you guys!" Zeke crows playfully from the kitchen door, having walking in on us being lovey-dovey. "You make my gums rot."

Trish sticks out her tongue and I catch it, kissing her deeply. Zeke makes some noises from his corner of the room, but he's become background noise, because all I know is now Trish, Trish, Trish.

She breaks the kiss off and laughs, batting me away. She turns to Zeke, blushing slightly at the display she's made of herself. "Do you want anything to drink, Zeke? Or has Cole been a terrible host as always and not offered you anything?"

"Don't you worry your skirts," Zeke waves, indicating the beer he's got waiting on the table. "Cole's got me covered."

"Good, he's learning," Trish smiles, and ducks away from the kiss I'm about to give her, laughing when I pout. "Congratulations on your promotion, honey. How about we migrate to the couch and you can tell me all about it?"

Me and Zeke tell her about the promotion, interrupting each other, trying to tell the story even more spectacular than it was—and Trish is laughing, sipping her beer, because she knows we're exaggerating but she's happy, and this is perfect. My best friend, my girl friend, and a brighter future. Nothing can go wrong, I think, not when I have this.

Eventually we peter off, having told the tale, and the movie's still going so we drink to that, and Trish starts off by talking about her day, how she had a curious case of an emergency room patient who appeared out of no where and disappeared to no where. "I checked the receipts of his payment at the cashier to see if I could ID him through that, and the funds belonged to this obscure company—I tried poking around on and offline, but there's absolutely nothing I could find on record about it! Even Google failed me!"

"Maybe it's a dummy corporation," Zeke jumps in, ever one to see conspiracies in everything.

"Or maybe he's just a really important guy," I say. "And he doesn't want anybody knowing who he really is."

"None of those explain anything," Trish frowns, seriously. "He had these awful burns all over his body when I found him, but it was barely two hours later and I saw him again and he was just about fine! The burns looked as if they were weeks old, rather than hours."

"That is pretty bizarre," I admit.

"Maybe he's an alien from another planet," Zeke suggests.

"Maybe," Trish says, doubtfully.

"Maybe you're worrying about him too much," I say, drawing her close. "Maybe you should worry more about me."

"You two should worry about my blood pressure!" Zeke cries, jumping off the couch. "I'll leave you two alone, then. Thanks for having me over, Cole. And thanks for your hospitality, Trish."

"Anytime, Zeke," Trish smiles, and makes as if to open the door for him, but I pull her in and distract her enough that she forgets about that, and neither of us hear Zeke muttering that he'd let himself out: we're both quite busy.

x-x-x

Zeke's always been fond of Cole, and, by extension, Trish. They're this particular brand of sappy that is as endearing as it is hilarious. On their own they're both quite stern and straightforward individuals. But when put together, it's like honey starts pouring out of every surface. It's cute, most of the time. It's nice to see Cole so happy—Zeke's been his bud since they were brats, and Cole hasn't had the easiest of times growing up—so him and Trish are nice to see together. But some times, it gets kind of irritating.

It's not as if Zeke isn't happy for Cole: Cole's his best friend, his brother, and nothing will ever change that. But, no matter how bad Cole has had it, he's always had it better than Zeke. And Zeke knows it'll always be that way.

Zeke shakes his head, raindrops making a slick mess of his carefully crafted hairdo. This weather must be getting him down, he thinks, frowning. Stupid rain. He kicks a can off the sidewalk as he swerves to take the alley down the street—it's a shortcut home, and, besides, several of the floors have nice verandas that block the downpour.

"Cole's my best friend," he reminds himself, aloud this time. "And there's nothing to be jealous of." He nods sternly, breaking into a grin.

Him and Cole are halves of the same coin—so what if Zeke's the side that usually faces down? They're made of the same stuff, him and Cole, that means Zeke is just as good and can do just as well. They got that promotion together, didn't they? And he and Cole are going together to New Marais next summer, right? They're gonna practice their jumps, just he and him, and Zeke's gonna beat Cole so bad the guy's gonna owe him a whole load of cashola.

Zeke laughs, already feeling good, anticipating the moment when Cole's laughing shamefacedly and paying up because they've raced and he's lost and he's already swearing a rematch, and off they go, again.

"Dunbar," a dark voice emerges from the alley, abruptly cutting Zeke from his fantasy. It's a tone made even more menacing against the loud rain, and Zeke thinks to himself _No, man, no way it can get this cliché_ before he turns around, grinning weakly, hands up in the air.

"H-hey, man," Zeke greets, seeing the gun and not seeing it, too busy trying hard not to start shaking lest his teeth start to chatter and make him stutter into incoherence. "Uh, the money's at home, I don't got it on me."

"That's what you said the last time, Dunbar," the man comes closer, but all Zeke can really take in is that glossy black beauty of a weapon, coming up close to his chest, pointed at his heart. "And that's what you'll say next time. I'm getting tired of this."

"I-I swear I got it, I got a promotion today, I got the money, man, I swear," Zeke repeats, and for some reason he thinks of Cole—Cole wouldn't let his voice shake, he'd square his shoulders, grit his teeth like one of those Western dudes, and he wouldn't be afraid—so Zeke squares his shoulders, grits his teeth, and doesn't acknowledge the fear that's making his heart hammer, and says. "If you kill me, you'll never see a cent."

"If I let you live, I won't see any anyway," the man growls, and for a second Zeke thinks he should make a run for it, or make a dash towards the guy—oh man, if only he had a gun of his own—when, out of the blue, the man lets out a horrified yelp of a sound, and all Zeke can see is a torrent of red, and then he realizes he's screaming too, having backed up against the cold humid wall of the alley, still blocked from the rain but the rain still loud against his eardrums, heart pulsing so painfully it feels like a heart attack.

"B-buh," Zeke blubbers, since there's no air left in his lungs.

The stench of burnt flesh is a pungent odor.

There's another man standing over the corpse—_that's a real corpse, Zeke Dunbar, that's a god damned dead man_—his alleyway savior, squared shoulders, thick-corded muscles, the whole hero package right there, in front of him. The man turns around briefly, and Zeke can swear that his eyes are a bright red before his brain registers that no, they're blue, that strange electric blue Cole has, really—and that the red he saw is actually a dancing streak of crimson around his fists, up his arm, like living bolts of lightning.

The man is staring at him, quiet and somber, and Zeke immediately registers the ugly-looking scar crawling up the left side of the man's face, looking like a burn tracing a lightning strike—"awful burns all over his body" Trish had said, hadn't she, _hadn't she_?—and that's all Zeke can really register, because he's too busy trying not to piss his pants.

"Watch yourself," the man finally says, and his voice is low like a scratchy growl, and before Zeke can thank the guy or scream or blubber some more, he's gone in a flash of red, and all that's left is the smell of ozone and meat and dirty wetness, the rain still going strong.

"Oh my God," Zeke eventually finds the strength to say, and he's shaking all over, the adrenaline pounding through his system. "Oh my God." He glances at the corpse—yep, still dead, still smelling like a burnt marshmallow—"Oh man, oh man. What the fuck just happened." He stares at the corpse some more, remembering red lightning and blue eyes, and the smell of ozone. "Jesus, " he exhales, shuddering and half-crying. "Cole ain't ever gonna believe this."

He manages to get to his feet, still trembling—he stares at the dead guy as he carefully skirts around him, hoping that he doesn't come back to life to grab his ankle or something similarly horrifying, backing away until he's out of the alley, and then Zeke tears down the street as fast as his feet can take him, his breath hitching in odd places, feeling numb and feeling crazy, and all he can think is _I gotta tell Cole. I gotta tell Cole_.

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><p>Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed the chapter, feel free to write a review! All are read and much loved!<p> 


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** I've chosen to write Cole-the-Beast in second person because he's kind of distanced himself from what he's become, after so much crap. Kessler's written in third because he's caused a schism between his own desires as an individual, and what he wants Cole to become for the world's sake. And our present Cole's written in first, because he narrates his life like a comic book, same as the games. That's what I've decided, anyway.

Thanks for the reviews and your attention, dear readers! I love you all very much.

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><p><strong>Chapter 4.<strong>

You follow Zeke's frantic trek through the rain from above, unnoticed, so used to these sort of tracking missions that it wouldn't be flattery to call you an expert.

The rain is inconvenient, but not deadly: it's been dawning on you after coming here that your powers have diminished considerably, and that water has become more of a static nuisance than a death sentence. All the power you used to time travel has been sucked from you. Permanently. What remains is enough to power some basic moves: the lightning bolt and static thrusters and a few others; mostly the basics you started out with. And it doesn't seem like the harsher, more destructive ones are coming back anytime soon.

John's powers still remain, of course. They were barely harmed. But your own lightning, your own _birthright_…it's trickled away, like water through loose fingers. And you can't help but think, in that savage, arrogant way of yours, that perhaps Kessler is the same: perhaps Kessler too lost his powers when he made the jump, and now runs around, all the weaker, all the more exposed to those who would do him harm.

All the additive machinery he carries around makes sense to you, if you look at it that way. The spheres on his chest are not for decoration, but function as a portable electricity generator, that helps constantly amplify his diminished powers. You recall the last battle against him, when Kessler had clutched your face and damned your memories to remember that you were him and he'd always been you. That battle hadn't been anywhere close to impossible, even at its hardest. In retrospect it had been rather easy, considering all you've come to face until now.

Of course, by that time Kessler had wished to die—his voice by then had been slow, regretful, quite ready to embrace the end, especially after what he'd done to Trish—(_and oh, how you will come to regret having killed Trish, Kessler_)—but that did not mean he'd had to take it easy on you. And yet, somehow, Kessler's powers had not seemed so far ahead of your own, then, despite your difference in age and experience.

Now it made sense. Time traveling had stolen most of his powers, but unlike you now, he hadn't had anything to supplement and augment the little powers he had left. Hence his growth had been stunted, stilled in time, as if there could be no more evolution for him, no more improvement.

Ironic. Appropriately so.

Zeke's come to a stop in front of a nondescript apartment complex. It's yours and Trish's old place, you realize abruptly. That small hole in the wall you'd gotten back when you'd ditched college to piss off your parents and taken up that god-awful delivery job that had started this mess. It's way deep in the Warren District and it had been the closest you could get to the Hospital where Trish worked at, at a price you could afford with your meager wages. It's small, yes, but it's got memories in there and, _oh God_, you think, so many _memories_—

Zeke is fumbling for something in his pocket, his harsh pants audible even at your current elevation. He's reaching for his cell phone, perhaps finally having realized he had it, but his fingers are still trembling from fear because the phone slips through his chubby grasp and falls to the wet ground, soaking.

Zeke curses—oh yes, that brings back even more memories: it had been Zeke who'd taught you to curse when you were a kid, barely a bean sprout really, and he'd encouraged you to curse your dad, who'd promptly backhanded you so hard you saw stars. _God damn it Zeke_, you'd told him afterwards, cheek swollen and eyes wet. _You god damned fucker._ Oh yes, Zeke had always had the worst ideas—and Zeke curses some more as he tries to get the phone back up, but the rain's probably penetrated all the way inside, to the source, and it doesn't light up anymore. So Zeke resumes blathering out obscenities before he reaches up and knocks on the door as loudly as he can, crying out for you—

And you jerk at that, because it's one thing to hear the ghost of Zeke mutter your name, and it's quite another to really hear Zeke cry out your name, and know its not meant for you, not anymore. Never again.

"Cole, man, _please_ open up, _please_!" Zeke's screaming, pounding away. Why's he in such a hurry, you wonder. He'd had tons of runs in with hooligans hounding him for money when you and Zeke had shared a roof, hadn't he? Had Zeke always been so dependant on you?

Coldness curls in your stomach, and you know, you _know_ what's in there: that damned snake of guilt and anger and wretched regret, the one that coils up your esophagus and makes it hard to breath, trapped in your throat. And you know, if you look behind you, Zeke will be there, silent, always silent, staring…

But you have no more time to wallow in rain-soaked misery because the door has opened and a voice like yours has beckoned Zeke inside, and Zeke's gone in, away from your sight, away from your scope of meddling. But that voice isn't yours, you think, and premature red lightning zaps the raindrops before they fall onto your skin, like vicious snaps of monstrous, beastly jaws.

You won't be able to hear what they're saying, this far up, this far outside. And while the rain's not deadly, it's still a goddamned nuisance; and if you stay out any longer, in your grief-stunted madness you'll be tempted to grab a power generator and explode the whole damned block, fuck the innocents.

You make it back to your hide out quickly enough, memories pouring out of you like silent screams—Zeke's face, whispering "Cole" one last time before you fried him, before you killed your one and only friend; Trish's eyes as she used her last bit of air to curse you, to call you a monster. You feel murderous and trapped and quite mad, like if you scratched at your skin enough you'd bleed out red lightening instead of blood. The feel of wet cloth is making you want to throw up. Clenching and unclenching your fists, you agree to fuck the consequences and break into the veranda owner's house, hoping it's a guy who lives in there.

It is—a woman and a man, and they're screaming at your entrance, startled in an intimate position—and, crouched over them menacingly as you do, to keep them still and in a position where you could strike them dead, you feel the life of them, faintly, and you could drain them dry…

A flash of Trish at the hospital comes to you then, not the younger one you had the pleasure of meeting earlier today but _your_ Trish, holding your hand, tears in her eyes, so worried she'd lose you too like she lost Amy—

And so you push the man and the woman down and bind their limbs to the floor with relatively harmless red static. It'll wear off after an hour or so…probably. The woman is sobbing out loud, and the man's shaking in his shoes, not daring to speak up with how horrified he is, how scared.

Disgusted with yourself for some reason, you hastily raid the guy's closet in the other room and change into some similar-looking dry clothes, stuffing your own into your wet satchel. You already have experience raiding closets, since you did just that after leaving the hospital; that stupid hospital gown had not been very flattering.

The couple's still on the floor beside the bed where you left them, tied, and again you feel that urge to drain them dry—if they live, they'll talk about you, and the police will hunt you—but Trish is still in your memory, insistent, and though for once Zeke's ghost is absent, the damnable thing is that the bastard has conditioned you to feel guilt, just by remembering him, and you feel sick at the thought of separating this couple, like Kessler had separated you from Trish, like the Beast had separated Kessler from Trish.

"Sorry," you mutter, looking down at them, and they're still shaking, speechless, perhaps expecting the worst—indeed, the woman's tilted her head to a side, seemingly to get closer to the guy, and the guy's arms flex, as if he wants to shield the woman even though the restraints will never be broken by such feeble strength—and you sit down on the bed above them, repeating the apology. "It's just until the rain stops," you tell them, and lean back on the bed, turning your head to face the window. "Until the rain stops. Then I'll let you go."

When the guy makes to speak, you silence him with a lightning band about his face. If he opens his mouth, it'll electrocute him—not gently, but neither enough to kill him. It'll probably knock him out cold if he opens his maw often enough. For some reason, you can't find the heart to do the same to the girl. Good thing she knows how to keep her mouth shut, you think, and close your eyes, listening to the couple's quiet whimpers and shuddering bones as well as the rain, going on, unceasing.

In retrospect, it might've been easier if you'd killed them.

x-x-x

"Boss," the radio crackles, interrupting Kessler mid-speech. "Boss, Rob Carey's dead."

"Sorry, I have to take this," Kessler nods sharply at Wolfe, who'd been sitting in front of his computer, patiently waiting out his friend's tendency to extrapolate.

"Fine with me," Sebastian Wolfe shrugs, and returns to his work. "Do your thing."

Kessler, not quite satisfied with that answer but with no time to berate it, turns around and holds up the radio to his mouth. "What do you mean Carey's dead?" He asks, calmly. Deadly.

"He didn't report back, so we investigated. He died in an alley in the Historic District, seemingly from electrocution. But there was no electrical outputs near where we found him."

Electrocution. Kessler knew who had done it without much prompting.

"Get rid of the body. I trust you can take care of any nosy relatives. Call it an accident, due to the rain, perhaps. Whatever it takes. Assign someone else to Dunbar, but _he is not to be harmed_, same as before. Report back to me as soon as this is done. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," the radio cracks, and is silent.

Kessler's mouth twists in a grimace, forcing back the urge to curse. He should have known the Beast would cause havoc the moment it had the chance. After all, it was in its nature—whether its host still carried his humanity or not.

"Problems?" Wolfe asks with a hum, eyes still locked on his screen, fingers flying on the keyboard.

"None I cannot handle," Kessler mutters, fist clenched tight. He'd thought to spare his alternate self, leave him as an open variable for a little while longer—perhaps out of some manner of sympathy, perhaps out of some manner of understanding…more likely out of curiosity. But that curiosity had been sated.

Cole-the-Beast had and would continue to interfere with his plans—his carefully laid out plans—and that would simply not do.

"Calm yourself," Wolfe advises, finally looking up through his spectacles. "You're interfering with the electrical circuits inside the machine."

Kessler ceases the lightning crackling at his fingertips immediately, but his face remains grave. He spares a small glare at his companion, before looking away. "My apologies," he says curtly, and begins to walk away.

"Kessler," Wolfe calls out, causing the other to pause. "I am not only your business associate, but your friend. If you are troubled—"

"I am fine," Kessler cuts him off. "I have some business to take care of. Resume your activities." With a twist and snap of his coat, he is gone.

Sebastian Wolfe frowns, scratching absently at his graying hair. It had never been easy to be friends with Kessler, even less so as time wore on and barrier after barrier of cold, inflexible emotion slammed between him and the world, but the past few days he'd been almost unbearably shut out.

With a sigh, Wolfe returns to his duties, and is soon absorbed in the tangled complexities of his work, a small smile of excitement creeping up his face. Kessler had spoken of this, he remembered, and Kessler's predictions rarely ever fell off the mark. The Ray Sphere's programming was coming along just fine.

x-x-x

"Jesus, Zeke," I make sure my snarling face is the first thing Zeke sees when I open the door. "You kind of interrupted us in the middle of something." I'm shirtless so if this dunce doesn't get it from my lips then surely he'll get it from my body before I shove him out and tell him to fuck off, please.

Zeke opens his jaw then, and it starts flapping up and down uncontrollably, a stream of almost unintelligible words coming out and into my ears like a sputtered staccato. "Cole man I'm sorry but this guy just tried to kill me and then he got killed by this guy who I think is the guy Trish was talking about—"

"Whoa, whoa, slow down," I interrupt, trying to take it all in but it's been muddled up en route to my brain. "Slow down a little! What about what guy?"

"Cole!" Trish gets my attention quick, her voice demanding and berating. "Let Zeke inside, he's soaked!" She's coming down the entrance hall toward us, quickly putting up her loosened hair in a ponytail. Hair I'd so lovingly loosened just moments ago. Damn it, focus, Cole! I move aside and hurriedly wave Zeke in—no need to get Trish any angrier.

"Thanks, man," Zeke says gratefully as he walks in, still shaking. The moment I close the door behind him it seems like a pseudo blanket of safety has closed in around Zeke and finally taken his bravado, because Zeke's knees buckle below him and he falls, gasping wetly.

I catch an arm with a grunt of effort before he hits the ground, calling out a worried "_Zeke_!" He's red-faced, panting up seized breaths like each one's his last, and the worry really starts to drive what seems like battery acid into my veins. "Zeke, buddy, you all right?"

"He's hyperventilating," Trish says, pushing me away towards the wall to give Zeke some space. "Take deep breaths, Zeke, slowly. Look at my face Shh, breathe. Slowly. Deep breaths."

I'm watching all this happen, back to the wall, and my heart's pounding like a drum in my chest, painfully heavy and loud. Zeke's my best friend, my only friend really, beyond Trish, and if something were to happen to him—and something _has_ happened to him, I realize, the words "this guy just tried to kill me" bouncing around my noggin like a rubber ball in the midst of a squash game.

Zeke regains some semblance of calm after a minute or so, his face still red and wet from rain and sweat, but at least his breathing's gone down to normal.

"Can you tell us what happened?" Trish says urgently, eyes searching Zeke's until they meet, and holds his gaze steadily. She's got a hand on his arm, and I have no space to be jealous because I'm kneeling down too, hesitantly offering my own hand on his back, placing it there, making sure he knows I'm worried too because, damn it Zeke, I am, and seeing him look so scared like that is scaring me, too.

"I was walking home," Zeke starts after a deep breath, closing his eyes. Belatedly I realize he's lost his sunglasses somewhere—and Zeke _never_ goes anywhere without his glasses, so this must be damn serious. "I was walking home, and I used that alley nearby here, the one that cuts through the block and opens up to the main street. It was raining—it _is _raining, and I thought it'd be faster. It was gonna be faster."

Trish nods encouragingly, and I kind of want him to get to the "then the guy tried to kill me" part, because I want to know his name, his face, and where the fuck he lives, because I'm going to kill him for scaring my brother like that.

And like I want, Zeke's taken another deep breath and begun by going "And then this guy jumps at me with a gun, and he's asking me for some money I owe him—"

"_Do_ you owe him money?" Trish interrupts, and I wave that aside.

"Not important right now," I tell her, and she reluctantly nods. "Go on, Zeke. What'd he look like? I'll beat him up so hard he won't ever think of waving a gun at you or anyone again."

"Y-You can't," Zeke stumbles, and I think it's because he's afraid that I'll get killed instead but soon I come to realize that no, because, "He's already dead."

"What?" Trish asks, ashen-faced. "Zeke, you didn't…?"

"No!" Zeke exclaims, horrified. "No! I've never killed anyone in my life!" He shakes his head. "No, someone else killed him. This guy—he just dropped out of nowhere, and he killed him. He…he had a scar on his face, like a burn." Trish's eyes light up, and I remember her talking about that, that patient of hers… "And, this is going to sound really stupid but I swear I'm telling the truth—he killed the guy with red lightning—and it was crawling up his arms, like it belonged there, like he'd made it. Sorta like a comic book hero, or something."

And I'm raising my eyebrows at that, because I've never heard of anyone who could handle powers like a comic book hero except in comic books, and those are clearly beyond our realm of reality.

But Trish is taking him seriously, I can tell, because she's leaned in and her hand is holding Zeke's arm tighter. "A scar across his face, like a burn… was it on the left?"

"You can't seriously…" I start, but Zeke's eyes are watery and I shut up because Zeke's just had a near-death experience and he's terrified, and he doesn't need my shit right now.

"He had blue eyes," Zeke nods frantically. "I thought they were red at first but they were blue, electric blue, man, crazy bright…sort of like yours," he says, like something's dawning on him, looking up at me with huge eyes that I'm not used to seeing without black glass to hide them. "Kind of exactly like yours, really."

I don't know what to say to that, what to make of it. So I stay quiet. Eyes like mine…? Loads of people have blue eyes, don't they?

"That sounds like the guy—his name was John, I remember. John White." Trish whispers. "The nurse attending him when he woke up told me she saw the machines malfunctioning with red lightning for a second before it stopped. I didn't believe her, but…"

"Wait, wait, wait," I hold out my hands. "So this is that crazy guy you were talking about earlier, the one you saw today that came from outer space or something and paid his bill using a conspiracy-run dummy corporation?"

"He's not from outer space," Trish frowns, perhaps angry with me for not taking this as seriously or as in stride as she was taking it. As if I can help it! This all sounds ridiculous.

"Probably," Zeke echoes, shakily. "But you should have seen his eyes, Cole. He looked like he could kill the world and not care a whit. And that red lightning…"

I still wasn't convinced with all this lightning crap. I was never one to believe things I hadn't seen with my own two eyes, and this certainly counted as one of those things I'd remain skeptical about until it happened before me. But Trish seems convinced, and Zeke damn sure seems convinced, and they both look like they needed to sit down.

So I figure I should tell them both to do just that. "Let's go to the living room. I'll get you two some water. And then we can figure this out, okay?"

Trish looks at me gratefully, and Zeke does too—it's kind of disturbing, in a way, the hero-worship I think I see there, but I quickly discard it, thinking it's probably my own vanity (because I _am_ vain, sometimes, even if I don't like to admit it), and usher them two to the couch a few doors down.

I fetch some water from the kitchen and juggle the three glasses, sitting down in the middle of the couch and scooting to give them both room at either side of me. And then, suddenly, we're back to where we were some 20-shy minutes ago. Except now I've got a soaking wet Zeke to my right and a wide-eyed Trish to my left, and I'm the only sane person left on the planet.

And, belatedly, I realize I still haven't put on a damn shirt.

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><p>Thanks for reading! All reviews are read and appreciated.<p> 


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